


Ask me no more, for fear I should reply.

by lategoodbye



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10314158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: When Morse introduces himself it is in the practised and precise speech of a studied man – and suddenly Max's interest is piqued.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from an untitled poem by A.E. Housman. It's the same poem that Max quotes in Game ("And one was fond of me: and all are slain.").
> 
> Many thanks to Chloe and Rose for their encouragement and help.

There's something different about the young DC they've sent to investigate the potential suicide in Thrupp, and it's not just the way he seems woefully disinterested in the tell-tale gunpowder residue that surrounds what's left of Miles Percival's right temple. Truth be told, not many people care much for the gory details. As a doctor of pathology, Max DeBryn is used to it by now – the awkward posturing, the reluctant fascination, the thinly-veiled disdain – but never before in his career has he met anyone so hopelessly aloof. 

DC Morse's display of policemanship borders on the unprofessional, and he's not exactly the most pleasant of company. His displeasure at being confronted with a violent death is etched clearly into his handsome features. When he introduces himself it is in the practised and precise speech of a studied man – and suddenly Max's interest is piqued.

What he has to say often goes over the heads of colleagues and friends alike. He doesn't relish in it. A lifetime of being viewed as the odd one out has made him realise that there's nothing to be gained from superior intellect alone. He can't help the bon mots and witticisms any more than his romantic preferences. How refreshing to find someone like-minded in the most unusual of places.

Perhaps it's excusable then that Max for once lives up to the tired old cliché of the morbid necrophiliac and welcomes the DC with a gloved, bloodied hand. It's a cruel joke that his own unworldliness is playing on them both, but Morse's handshake is warm and strong and the feeling of it lingers even after the man has retired to the safety of a parked patrol car nearby.

Find me when you're done, he's said, and so Max keeps an eye on him as he works. Not closely enough to be distracted – Max DeBryn prides himself on his thoroughness – but long enough to notice that DC Morse stands alone and far-off from his uniformed colleagues who talk among themselves with unabated gusto. A crime scene to them is a regular occurrence. To young Morse it is a tragedy and it sets him apart from his peers. 

Max doesn't exactly sympathise with DC Morse – it's far too early into their acquaintance for that – but he's intrigued and willing to overlook his obvious lack of courtesy. It reminds him of his days as a student: their playful battle of wits that culminates not in animosity but in giving him a lift to Jericho in his trusty old Standard Ten.

During the ride Morse proves to be a rather pleasant passenger. He doesn't mind the Sibelius that's playing on the radio, and his comments on the obligatory Wagner lead Max to believe that DC Morse is indeed a learned man with peculiar musical tastes similar to his own.

“Where did you say you hailed from?”, he asks out of genuine curiosity.

“I didn't, actually”, and Morse seems loath to repeat himself. “For what it's worth, I've been seconded from Newtown.”

“And do they teach much Wagner down in Carshall Newtown?”

“No.” Max is rewarded with a humourless smirk. “No, they don't. It's more of a personal interest.”

“So”, he sums up. “A necrophobic detective with a penchant for the melodramatic and a keen knowledge of military weaponry.”

For a moment Morse seems taken aback, and with a strangely heavy heart Max fears that he has overindulged himself. How odd that he would regret the loss of DC Morse's companionship so soon after they've first met.

“Just the regular issued service guns, I'm afraid.”

“Aha! He has a sense of humour”, Max proclaims over the rather tinny recording of Keilberth's Lohengrin just as they're about to reach the address on Miles Percival's envelope.

“I try”, DC Morse replies dryly, and steps out into the pleasant Oxford morning. Max watches as he crosses the street with the purpose of someone who knows his way around. New to Oxford City Police he might be but new to Oxford, he deduces, Morse isn’t. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place, and he now knows – or at least suspects – that there’s far more to him than meets the eye.

The necrophobia, however, isn't much of an exaggeration. Max has all but forgotten about it until not even five minutes into poor Mary Tremlett's autopsy DC Morse faints into the arms of his DI. Momentarily at a loss about what to do – he hasn't seen someone faint at the sight of blood since his days at university – Max watches as DI Thursday gently lowers Morse to the ground. He circles the autopsy table in an attempt to help until Thursday with a meaningful glance reminds him of the bonesaw in his hand. What a fine impression that would make: waking up to an armed madman whose gloved hands are sticky with thin, lifeless blood.

“That's quite alright, Dr DeBryn”, Thursday says softly, as if in part to DC Morse who lies pale and unmoving on the cold ceramic tiles, long limbs this way and that, much like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “He'll be right as rain in a minute, just you wait and see.”

Even so, Max decides it is only prudent to postpone the autopsy – at least until DC Morse has woken up. He puts aside the saw, doffs the gloves, then covers Mary Tremlett's body with a sheet. Dark spots of red seep through the fabric where has made his first incisions. This won't do at all but it simply can't be helped.

“We keep the smelling salts in a cabinet behind you”, he offers helplessly once he's done but Thursday shakes his head. 

“Morse?” He gently pats his DC's cheeks and is rewarded with a feeble groan. “Can you hear me? Endeavour?”

Morse comes to slowly. Squinting away the last vestiges of unconsciousness he gazes up into Thursday's face in bewilderment, then – with dawning comprehension – at the covered autopsy table and at Max, who can't help but feel at least in part responsible. He's a doctor, after all, and he won't see his patients – deceased or otherwise – come to harm. Not if he has anything to say about it.

There's not much to be done about Morse's growing embarrassment but at least his rapidly reddening face points toward a fast recovery.

“Oh”, he exclaims miserably and drapes one arm over his eyes while simultaneously trying to gain his footing. It makes for a few awkward seconds of uncoordinated shuffling in which Morse, still decidedly green around the nose, tries his best to appear unperturbed.

“Easy now”, Thursday cautions but then he lets him be.

Max tries for a reassuring smile, but he suspects that it will help the situation very little. Morse quite literally is mortified.

“Sir… Doctor”, he croaks and then promptly bolts from the room, leaving Thursday and him to conduct the remainder of the forensic examination on their own.

Max doesn’t see DC Morse again until a few days later. It's Sunday afternoon and he has switched the dotted bow-tie and patterned cardigan for a more formal attire. He has bought his ticket to hear Rosalind Stromming née Calloway sing Puccini months ago but even so he's sitting in the back. One Dr Maximilian Theodore Siegfried DeBryn he might be but his wages as a pathologist won't compare to that of Oxford Gown. 

He marvels at Stromming's superbly lugubrious recital of “Un bel dì vedremo”, the obligatory “bravissima” on his lips as he along with the rest of her captured audience erupts into rounds of applause… and there he is, DC Endeavour Morse, presenting Rosalind Stromming with a single red rose as he leads her off the stage.

Max only understands when he's asked to perform the autopsy. She's hanged herself, quite clearly, with a noose fashioned from some kind of soft material – City Police thoughtfully provide him with the knotted linen fabric. Her ribs are broken in two places from a failed resuscitation attempt but otherwise? No bruises, no signs of struggle. Rosalind Stromming had wanted to die. 

And so, the deaths of young Mary Tremlett and Miles Percival, Rosalind Stromming's suicide in custody – it all comes together quite nicely. Max would stake his best Knappertsbusch on DC Morse having something to do with it. He surely is unorthodox, even by Oxford standards, this thin-skinned policeman with an ear for music and a thirst for answers to questions which no one has thought to ask.

But he doesn't mention any of this when, about a week later, they meet at the Flag. Morse, in his obligatory on-duty suit, is sitting alone and he's nursing an almost-finished pint of bitter. If he's still embarrassed over what happened at Mary Tremlett's autopsy he doesn't let on, and it's just as well. Max wouldn't have known what to say to that anyway.

“I was sorry to hear about Rosalind Stromming. I enjoyed her Madame Butterfly tremendously”, he says instead, awkwardly standing in front of Morse's table with two glasses of Gin and Tonic in his hands – one for himself, the other for the colleague who's waiting for him at a table nearby. Morse just nods, as he empties what's left of his beer in one draught.

“Am I right in believing that your detachment to Oxford City Police might prove to be a permanent one?”, he asks then, even though he already knows that in light of Ch Supt Crisp's early retirement a number of changes have been made to accommodate for the loss of personnel. Not that Max has seen any kind of official documentation but rumour has it that there is a certain DS Jakes coming in from County and that DC Morse is here to stay.

“Looks that way”, Morse replies and he appears to be rather blasé about the whole thing.

But Max won't let that deter him.

“Excellent!”

And his warm smile is difficult even for Morse to ignore.


End file.
